


We'd Make Great Wolves

by StrangeBlue



Category: Elder Scrolls, Elder Scrolls V: Skyrim
Genre: Animal Death, Canon Compliant, Canon-Typical Violence, Childhood Trauma, Daedra, Dark, Don't copy to another site, Dragonborn? What Dragonborn?, Dreams and Nightmares, Flashbacks, Fluff and Angst, Gen, Gore, I am new here and I am trying, I'm basically taking ill met by moonlight and chucking it out the window, Moral Ambiguity, Mother-Daughter Relationship, My First Fanfic, Original Questline, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Parasitical diseases, Parent-Child Relationship, Ported from Quotev, Rating May Change, Religious commitment, Rewrites may happen, Self-Doubt, Silver Hand, Social Isolation, The not-so-bad guys and the very bad guys, Undead, Vampires, Violence, Werewolves, in a dark hunter kinda way, reluctant alliances, short-ish chapters, single parent
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-10-17
Updated: 2020-05-23
Packaged: 2020-12-21 04:10:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 16
Words: 20,406
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21068612
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/StrangeBlue/pseuds/StrangeBlue
Summary: The wild knows no benevolence. In the chase, you're either the predator or the prey. There's not that much in between. Svensa's known that life for a very long time, as a solitary hunter. But with a little girl to think about now, the world has become ripe with creatures striving to make prey of them both. Yet her Lord still had one demand of her. A task that only the most experienced hunter could ever hope to accomplish.





	1. Prelude: Chanting

The air in the fortress was freezing and musty, but its inhabitants didn't seem to mind. Even as they trudged through ankle deep puddles, the cold barely caused a shiver. The fortress itself was massive, filled with winding halls and sprawling rooms. And yet not a single torch was lit. Further below into the cellar, glacial caves collapsed in on the walls, carved away after centuries of thaw and creating the likeness of an insect colony.

Though their make was of solid ice, not a single fire warded away the biting cold. Its inhabitants walked the halls, some more mindlessly than others. But not one voiced a complaint against the frozen burns on their sometimes bare feet. Instead, they hunched over books and indulged upon dark drink, content in the sightless world they called a haven.

Within the inner sanctum, a guttural hymn could be heard. It filled the blackness with song, but not that of which brings those from the light to dance. Even the vermin that skittered about shrank away at the forbidden words that were uttered in carol. The innermost chamber held nothing, beside the shadows. But the congregation's choir filled it with sound. And the blade filled it with sweet red.

If one were to understand the tongues spoken, they would surely cut off their ears in surrender and flee back into the morning light. But none came, so none interrupted when the choir ceased and the ritual master raised his robed arms. Only together, did they chant. A single voice, rattling the doors and roaring against the ceiling.

"Of Man, of Mer, of Beast."

"Bring unto us your coveted life."

"Your blood, as nectar."

"Your flesh, as fruit."

"Bring unto us your strength."

"That we would forever rule."

"That you would forever serve."

"Spread as a fire in the summer's heat."

"That we may grow stronger."

"Speak only in whispered tongues."

"That we may never fall."

"Come unto us, living of Nirn."

"Come and serve Vollanar."

And from the back choir, a bowing beast let loose a howl, straining against its heavy chains.


	2. Chapter One: Staring

The woman strode through the gates of Riverwood, intent on leaving as soon as possible. Over her shoulder, a large pack of furs swayed with every step. And behind her, her child was still rubbing the sleep from her eyes. It was a lengthy walk from their camp to the mill town, but she needed the gold and the supplies. Ruvja still had a hard time though, since it took half the morning to get here. Perhaps after they were done, she'd treat her to breakfast at the Inn. Her daughter had been tolerant enough with getting up before dawn, despite a few whiny remarks. And she could take the staring if they decided to stay another hour.

Speaking of staring, Hilde was out on her porch again. The elderly woman shot her a dirty look from her chair. She walked straight past, didn't even give her the time of day. Her and her son Sven both decided that she was worthy of some kind of suspicion, though she had not done anything to raise any alarm. Maybe they thought she was Forsworn, or Daedra. Animal skin hoods tend to spook people, she noticed. But they did serve a purpose. Whether they liked her or hated her did not matter, she wasn't here for squabble. The sound of children playing caught her ears and she turned to face Ruvja.

"Go play if you'd like," she said, gesturing over to Dorthe and Frodnar.

Ruvja hesitated, but made her way over to the two older children. They looked up from catching minnows and Dorthe pointed to something in the water, handing her a net. Good. She needed playmates. The woman turned on her heel to head into the shop, almost bumping noses with Camilla. The girl gasped, before sputtering out a ring of apologies. She let out a hum and pushed straight past her, into the Riverwood Trader. The front door opened with a bell.

"Well, if it isn't our favorite local," greeted Lucan with a smile, "How can I help you today, Svensa?"

"Got some good pelts after the first thaw," she offered, slinging the huge pack onto the counter. "Are you buying?"

"Yes, yes. These are _very_ nice," he mused, folding through the skins. "It looks like spring's been treating you well, so far. My buyers will enjoy these."

"Spring's been rough, actually. Animals've been sick," she said.

It was an iffy statement to make while trading. Many would question the quality of her labor. But she knew better than to put bad goods underneath a trader's nose. Besides, she needed a higher price. And he needed her pelts. And unlike a select few in Whiterun, she knew Lucan was no sleazeball. At least, most of the time.

"I suppose that means..."

"I need a higher price. Until the woods balances back out," she insisted.

Lucan hummed at that, laying the pelts across the counter neatly and grabbing a quill and parchment. She wasn't lying. She couldn't burn bridges with this man in the slightest. The forest was indeed acting odd. On this morning's hunt before they left, the fox's meat had worms. She discarded it, keeping only the skin for leather strips. Gods, she hated wasting.

"So that's... sixty for the doe, forty-five for both wolves, and ninety for the bear," he calculated. "Unusual markings on that sow."

"Two-fifty," she bargained a total. "For the quality of the bear skin."

"Two-ten and not a septim more," said Lucan.

"Deal," Svensa grumbled, pushing over the furs, "and Daedra smite you."

"A pleasure as always, Svensa," Lucan chuckled, placing a pouch in her open palm.

Out under the forge's overhang, the air was beginning to warm up at last. Alvor, the blacksmith, was just starting up the great bellows as Svensa sharpened one of her longer knives with a whetstone, fresh arrows sitting in her quiver. In the street, chickens were flapping about, dodging the dog's snapping and the children's grabbing in a game of tag. As she was testing the blade with a strip of leather, his wife sat down next to her, a bundle under her arm.

"Svensa, good morning!"

"G 'morn," she mumbled, hardly paying attention.

"I was just out and I saw your little girl playing with my Dorthe," said Sigrid, passing over the rolls of cloth, "and I thought you might like some clothes she's long outgrown."

Svensa leaned over gently peeling back at the old bed sheet, revealing a few tunics and dresses that were just about Roo's size. Most were in what she considered to be excellent condition, compared to the furs her child donned everyday. There was even some finer embroidering of flowers on one that passed her vision. They weren't very warm, but she'd love them.

"Thank you."

"It's no trouble! Ruvja's such a sweet thing. How old is she now?" she asked.

"Just passed her fifth winter," said Svensa.

"Already? They grow fast. Dorthe's just about to turn thirteen," said Sigrid with a small smile, "You know, if you ever need anything, my doors are always open. It can't be easy, raising a child alone."

Svensa's brow furrowed at that, though the animal skin she wore hid her expression well. Well meaning as Sigrid may seem, she would not accept any form of pity- from anyone. She'd been on her own for a very long time and had done just fine. Ruvja was living the best life, in her opinion. They were not beggars, as some might believe.They did not scrounge for scraps in the street. 

"We're fine," she spat.

"Are you su-"

"We're _fine."_

Svensa threw the bag over her shoulder and sheathed the carving knife, stepping down from the porch. She made her way over to Roo, who was busy stuffing mushrooms into her knapsack. She held them up to her mother, who nodded and stroked her head. The woman gestured over to the Sleeping Giant Inn, sending the child into a fit of excited squeals. However as they walked on by, the saw workers' dog suddenly broke into a barking frenzy. He ran at the two of them, snarling like a mad wolf and snapping at their hands. Hod rushed over, holding him back by the collar.

"Stump? Stump, you dumb mutt! Bad dog!" he scolded. "What's gotten into you, eh?"

"It's that woman, Hod!" called Hilde, "She consorts with darkness and Daedra, I know it!"

Svensa glared, biting her tongue. Around them, people were beginning to stare. Even the guards seemed to be put on edge by the confrontation. Hod was apologizing, but the woman was already turning to leave, clutching her daughter's hand. Ruvja protested, blissfully ignorant and hungry. However, they were already through the south gate facing home by the time she pulled from her mother's grasp. A few hushed words and a deftly handed honey-nut treat were enough to keep her from throwing a tantrum. Only when they were a distance from the village did they finally speak.

"Why'd you do that?" asked her daughter, licking the end of the wooden skewer.

"Some people don't like us there, Roo," she explained. "Don't cut your tongue on that."

"Was it the Old Mouse Lady again?"

"Mhm, she wanted to make us into cheese," said Svensa, stifling a grin at the nickname. 

"I knew it!"

The two of them walked the road back to Falkreath Hold along the White River, watching as large chunks of ice flowed downstream from Lake Illinalta. On the other side, a few elk were getting a drink from the shallows and taking advantage of the shade. Svensa would take one down, if the water was not a bone-chilling freeze. They'd have to stick to their side of the river and watch for game, which was a bit hard between growling stomachs and a whining child. The woman was so focused on the long path ahead that she almost jumped when Ruvja yanked lightly on her tunic.

"Momma, look! Momma!" she whisper yelled, pointing and hopping.

Svensa sucked in a sharp breath, stilling. Among the thick trees was a large stag, but not just any ordinary stag. This one was huge, almost twice its normal size. And its coat was a beautiful, pure white. It nibbled at the low hanging pine branches, having not noticed them on the road. Never in her life had Svensa seen a deer so majestic.

"Hunter voice, Roo," she breathed.

Behind her, Ruvja stopped fidgiting and quieted down. She pulled her bow from around her neck, making no sudden movements or noise. A beast that size could feed them for the whole spring. She slipped an arrow from her quiver and took aim for the jugular. In a breath, she released.

The arrow whizzed through the air, notching into the tree behind the deer as it lifted its head. The creature snorted, dashing off into the woods and kicking up debris. Its hoof beats were so large, she could feel their tremor from the road. Missed. Ruvja made a noise of frustration. Svensa had half a mind to give chase; they needed that meat. But she was low on energy and her daughter would never be able to keep up. Neither of them were fit for running. And Aedra be damned if she was going to leave her little girl alone in the woods.

"We were so close!" exclaimed Ruvja. "By _this _much!"

"I know, Roo. It's been a rough melt. Still have those mushrooms in your bag?" asked Svensa.

Her daughter nodded, pulling out a fist full of the caps to show her mother. One look confirmed that all were edible. She smiled down at her.

"That's what we'll eat- mushroom stew," she proclaimed.

Ruvja cheered, happy to have breakfast in sight at last. The two of them walked down the dirt road together, occasionally stopping to pick flowers or look at the songbirds sitting in the pine branches high above. The morning's incident was already forgotten by the child, who was currently pretending to be a rabbit. But it sat fresh her mother's mind for the rest of the trek. No matter what those townsfolk thought of her, Svensa wasn't going to give up on the life she currently lead. The forest was dangerous, yes. But it held many secrets, encrypted in a language that only a hunter could ever understand. The white stag being one of them.


	3. Chapter Two: Blinking

While each day of the new spring grew warmer and longer, the walls of the winding caverns only became more suffocating. Dry shale flooring turned to mid-calf-deep mud and the air held more dampness to it than any of the times the clan was forced to hunker down during the blizzards. The group itself, mostly consisting of younger men, moaned and complained the whole length of winter. The mewling only grew worse as the melt swung in full and they were forced to actually get off their duffs and work. And their leader had to grit her teeth and carry every whining howl on her shoulders, sending them off to a horker-faced beefcake in the Pale who could care less.

With at least four hours of sleep and an uncorked bottle of wine under her belt, Naarty read and reread the same paragraph over again, already forgetting both its context and its language. She crushed her eyes shut as her vision doubled and the black ink looked reddish for a moment. How many nights now, was it? Five or six? Either way, the lack of rest was eating away at her so much, she swore the pounding headache was actually the Mad God knocking on her skull like it was a basement hatch. Gods know he'd be sweet release at this point. She grabbed the neck of the bottle, taking a long swig and slamming it back against the desk with an audible clunk. Maybe if she hit her head hard enough, she'd get lucky and send herself out cold for an hour. As she listened to armored footsteps approach from the next chamber, she slumped in her seat and cradled her head in her arms.

"Scout report, ma'am," said Tanicus's voice.

"Do we have any leads? At all?" she breathed, not bothering to sit up as another headache pushed at her eyeballs.

"Our hounds followed them south, but the scent went cold as they went through Helgen," said the Argonian.

Naarty stifled a groan, sitting up to wipe at her eyelids. Another trail lost, another dead end. Another opportunity falling through their fingers. They were so close this time, too. The scouts were actually being competent, for once. Was there just no end to this torment?

"They did however, find this."

Something large was dropped at her side, landing on the stone floor with a dull thunk. Turning down to face it revealed a large gunny sack. One deep breath later as she leaned over had her reeling back to cover her nose. It smelled absolutely fetid, like rotting meat and skeever bile mixed together. Hags breath, it was awful. She glanced up at Tanicus, who gestured toward the bag for her to open it. With one hand closing her face, Naarty undid the leather ties and pulled back the seams.

It was a head. Rotted almost all the way through, with no eyes and barely any face left. But still a head. The woman's neck lurched forward as her mouth filled with sick. This. This right here was the reason she was no longer out with the parties. Swallowing with a shudder, she lifted it into the candle light to get a better look. What was left of the skin was stretched and dry, colorless and aged. The mouth was open in what could be either an expression of burning rage or a dying wail of pain. But what caught her eye most were the double rows of teeth, pristine white within the black tongued maw.

Sharp and long. Not like a bear or wolf, no. More akin to a sabre cat. Too large to fit in all the way, ridiculous, clunky, and out of place even. As though they were taken from some other creature and fused to the bone. In life, there must have been many puddles of drool formed underneath its chin. The ears were pointed, like many of her mer brethren. But even they looked twisted and wrong. Had someone taken a pair of calipers and pulled them? She turned up to Tanicus, whose face betrayed mild disturbance but for a second.

"So," she rasped, "we've got a rotting monster head. Would this be of any significance to our search?"

"A different hunt, actually. This thing was killed only a day's worth ago, near the Falkreath border," he explained. "It attacked our troop's camp in the middle of the night."

"So then. We've got a _ spontaneously decomposing _ monster head. Do you think there are more?" asked Naarty.

"In that deep wilderness, I am most certain," said Tanicus. "Along with our original prey."

Naarty nodded, casting another long stare at the dried out head. They were manbeast hunters, not agents of Stendaar. This hunt should be for the werbeast- or _ werebeasts _ alone. Still, the thought of rubbing a huge jingling purse full of a Jarl's gratitude in her boss's face couldn't be ignored. Tracking down and killing a werewolf in their predicament? Good, but barely worth a second glance. Purging an entire coven of dark sorcers, or Falmer- or whatever in Oblivion made this thing- She had to at least consider it. The company of a finer tasting wine would be a pleasant touch. Maybe then she could actually sleep at night. She picked up the wine bottle once more and swilled a mouthful to get out the taste of bile still burning her throat and grabbed a quill.

"Here are your new orders then," she said, forgetting about the smell a moment too soon, "Please- *cough* get that thing outta here!"

Naarty handed over the folded scrawling through teary eyes and a hacking fit, watching as her scaled warrior plucked up the maggot box and hauled it out under his arm. The Argonian's silhouette ducked as he went out the doorway and a few moments later, she heard a shriek and a few gagging chokes echoing off the walls. That was Tanicus alright, barely ever squeamish about anything. But by Y'ffre if that wasn't brutal and disgusting, she didn't know what was. She thudded her forehead against the desk.

Closing her eyes only burned the image of that hollowed out face deeper into her mind, causing her to sit up with a start. The nightmares were sure to be worse now, but at least there was solace in knowing it might be worth the trouble in the end. Killing two birds with one stone just seemed to be the way to go. That is, if her band of idiots could prove themselves to be useful enough.


	4. Chapter Three: Waking

Morning came with the distant wail of a loon on lake, which she was not expecting this early in the season. Perhaps Illinalta, cursed as it may be, was warming more quickly this spring. Fishing might be a secondary option for some. Svensa however, had no such experience. She would not want to do it anyway. Perhaps they would have more luck on some small game further into the wilderness. But even then, they'd have to make a hunting trip out of it, which in the end, could prove fruitless and a waste of time and resources. The woman gazed down at her child, sleeping soundly. She would need to come up with something soon, but for now the day must go on.

Ruvja awoke from her deep slumber with a muffled whine. Svensa chuckled as she poked the fire, standing up to stir her fur-swaddled daughter into the morning light. The leftover stew would go cold otherwise. The little girl let out a shriek as the warm covers were yanked off.

"C'mon, Roo. We've got stuff we need to get done," she said.

"Dun wanna," Ruvja mumbled into her pillow, curling in a ball.

Svensa stood to full height over her bedroll with her hands on her hips and sighed.

"You asked for it," she warned, leaning down.

In one swoop, Ruvja was slung over her shoulder like a sack of flour, squealing like a piglet. Svensa let her dangle upside down, smiling as the girl broke into breathless laughter. She scooped her child up in her arms, planting a kiss on her forehead before gently sitting her down by the fire.

As soon as she placed a small bowl in her hands, Roo scarfed down its contents and immediately asked for more. She could only shake her head as she poured the ladle, listening to the last little giggles fill the air and catch on the breeze.

"Your hunger is as ravenous as a starving wolf," Svensa mused.

"Rav-nose?"

"Very hungry," she clarified. "Enough that fur could be poking outta your ears."

"Oh. Does that mean I'm a werewolf?" asked Ruvja, a twinkle of excitement in her eye.

"Hm. If Hircine wills it, I suppose you could be," she said, handing her a second helping. "It's hot, careful."

Roo sipped at it, despite the warning and squirmed in her seat at the scalding broth. She handed it back to her mother to blow on with a whine. As she breathed away the ever rising steam, her daughter was now imagining herself with the newfound power of lycanthropy. She pounced on a passing grasshopper, howling to the imaginary moons.

"Momma, can you howl?" she asked.

Svensa's eyes crinkled with a smile as she stared into the steam. A long time ago, that might have been all she wanted. To cry out against the night and run as fast as the wind. Those reckless, younger times of yearning were far behind her. Set aside, though long after a passing stranger in rags told her, "don't bother." But she never gave up the hunt. Never gave up the thrill in her heart each time she loosed an arrow into her next prey. Svensa already held true to what she believed in. And she believed in the great chase. Without answering, she threw her head back and howled to Aetherius, her daughter howling along with her.

When the last embers of their fire smothered to ash, Svensa lead her daughter over to a group of practice targets she had set up. Long had Ruvja begged her mother to teach her how to shoot, but there had been no bow small enough to fit in her dainty little fingers at any trader or blacksmith. Many strange looks were given whenever she asked. So instead, she took matters into her own hands.

Whittling and carving, stripping and lining until she had the perfect arch at the perfect size. The bowstring was animal fat, twisted and weaved and stretched until she was sure it would not snap against the tension applied. For her little girl, it would be her first. But far from her only. One day, she would teach her the craft and then she would make her own. Just as her own hunting group did for her. When she pulled the gift from her rucksack, Roo was at a loss for words for the first time in her life.

"Take your time, the targets aren't going anywhere. Remember how I showed you? Stand like a T-shape."

The arrows loosed one by one, bouncing off the trees or landing harmlessly in the grass. Or both. Roo made the occasional noise as another shot was missed, but did not give up. Svensa meanwhile kept calm, working her through each shot and never growing cross with her. Another miss. Another miss. And another. Eventually she began to complain of sore fingers, which brought up a good opportunity for a break. As they sat on a boulder under the shade of the pine trees, Ruvja had a question.

"Will I ever be as good as you?"

"Of course, Roo. It just takes a lot of practice," she said.

She sighed at that, bringing her knees up to her chin and peeling the seeds from a fallen pinecone. In the clearing, butterflies and bumblebees whizzed around the many colorful wildflowers. If she weren't so focused on what was beyond them, Ruvja would have chased them down and stuffed them in jars. However as mentioned, there was something beyond the meadow. Just up the hill in fact. She grabbed her mother's arm and shook it to get her attention.

"Momma, it's the deer again!" she whispered.

As if on cue, the stag raised its head and perked its ears in their direction. Antlers the color of sunlit snowfields cradled his head like the massive crown of a king. Svensa muttered under her breath in disbelief. What are the odds? She grabbed a fistful of arrows and stuffed them in her quiver, reaching for her bow.

"Roo, remember what I told you about being alone in the woods?" she said in her 'hunter voice.'

"Stay and wait for you?"

"Good. What about strangers and animals?" she inquired carefully stepping down from the boulder.

"Climb a tree for people and wolves. Walk away real quiet for bears."

"Excellent," Svensa praised. "If I'm not back, follow the path home."

Ruvja made a sound of acknowledgement and stayed rooted to the spot. Svensa crouched in the tall grass, weaving her way up the hill. All the while, mentally assuring herself that all would be well. They were a rock's toss from camp. She'd be fine. They needed this, so very badly. And in the back of her mind, you want this managed to creep in, purring in a singsong voice. She pulled an arrow from her quiver and took aim. He would not escape her a second time.

The arrow dug itself into the meat of his shoulder with a dull thnock, sending the beast scurrying away up the hill. Svensa climbed after it, watching it stumble over the low boulders. She fired a second shot, missing the heart as he bucked and instead grazing his underbelly. The stag cried out, bounding into the woods and higher into the crags. She took off after it, following the ever growing trail of blood staining the flower heads.

The wind up on the small mountain was cold and harsh, but Svensa did not falter as she hiked on. A thin layer of powder still dusted the leaves, soon to be taken by the warmth of spring. She followed the one mountain creek, already running warm and red. The ground was soft, giving under her feet and revealing the uneven limp the stag now bore. On the breeze, she heard a low bray of pain, spurring her into a sprint.

And there he stood, ruler of the woods. Against the low morning mist and scattered snowflakes, he was nearly invisible. Given away only by the red that lined his fine, kingly coat. Svensa crouched against the frosty, lichen covered earth and drew another arrow. It hit its mark, straight into the heart. When he fell, the stag shook the ground. She stood, walking up to his motionless body and marveling at his white coat. He almost glowed with an ethereal light.

"A fine way to go, on your mountain." She said aloud, leaning over him. "Many thanks. And may you have many sons to take your place."

As she began carving at the legs of her great prize, she could hear ravens cawing down at her. Their cackling grew louder, enough so that she glanced up at the trees to watch them. Just as she did, the entire murder flew the coop, blackening the sky and crying out an alert. She flinched, waiting for them to pass over so she could see the danger. But the darkness did not pass, only blotting out more light and engulfing her in shadow. Through the deafening shrieks and flurry of feathers the color of ebony, something emerged. The noise stopped, as did the wind. In front of her stood a figure, his yellow eyes floating in the dark sockets of a deer skull. He spoke, his voice like the deep roars of a thousand beasts speaking at once.

"Well met, hunter."


	5. Chapter Four: Kneeling

Svensa never considered herself religious. Not so much now, but at one time she longed for the favor of the Father of Manbeasts far more often than she cared to admit. Elder hunters revered him as though his presence were among them and informing her to do the same. For a long time, she did just so. One day as a child, she was hushed in the middle of a busy market when she mentioned the full Masser moon. No one had heard, but later that day she was told to be more quiet about it.

Daedra worshipers and heretics were not the first titles that came to mind, when she thought of her family. Perhaps it was because Daedra proved themselves to be much more lucid than the <strike>Nine</strike> Eight the Cyrodillians so loved. Perhaps because at one time it was all she had known. At least her family knew to keep such things to yourself, no matter how dedicated you actually were. The covenant did not prove to be their undoing, however. Not many people knew. And those that did were on the same page.

Hunting and killing and offering and carving idols- Thanking and respecting and waste-not. It was so much more than prayer and temples. It taught her important aspects of what to expect from the Prince of the Hunt. Such as if he is to appear in any form, whether you are deemed hunter or prey, you will know it is him. And you will kneel before him and obey.

She did just so, her braid brushing against the bloody hide of her kill and her nose pressed against the snow white fur. The yellow eyes that floated in darkness stared her down, letting out a bone-chilling noise that was either a deep chuckle or a low growl.

"Such fealty from a mortal who's heart pounds like the hare under the wolf's gaze. I shall make great use of it."

It was true, Svensa could feel the blood pump in her ears with the speed and rhythm of her hunting clan's drum. She did not dare look up, for fear that she might scream like the prey she may be destined to become. A tap of his spear and she could either be turned to a beastial form or reduced to sport and hunted to the ends of Nirn and beyond. Either way, she would lose herself and belong to the Huntsman. Still, why her? It was not yet his day.

"Questions, mortal. Answers, I will grant. Such prowess during the chase deserves a reward. But first, your master has a task for you."

Her heart felt as though it was in the back of her throat. As though in one word, she would be holding it in cupped palms. His voice was everywhere and nowhere. The darkness that cradled her smelled of nothing but blood and pine and something else. With a sudden weakness in her neck, she locked eyes with the Great Chase and nodded once.

"A sickness permeates through the forest, disrupting the balance and defiling both hunter and prey."

Her brow furrowed. Pestilence was a familiar enemy, with the ability to purge entire species within seasons. Men faced it, Mer faced it, sometimes even self proclaimed gods are said to face it. Was this not the work of Peryite? Prince of disease and natural order?

"Obedient and astute. No mortal, it is not only the creatures of Mundus that are plagued. The hounds, servants to me, have been growing thinner with each passing day."

No. No, that was not possible. Manbeasts are immune to disease- it is of his will that it is so, that none else may take them. While she knew nothing of Peryite, that was not natural. Not in the slightest. She stared into the skull levitating in the shadows, eyes clouded by confusion and question. What would he ask of her?

"Strange blood is on the wind, hunter. But not that of another realm. Seek out the one who taints the living and turns them to dead. Crush their head between your teeth- fill their body with arrows. And make to me an offering of their ribs."

Svensa's brow furrowed further at that. Were she much younger, she would have leapt at the chance to gain Hircine's approval. But now, she was not sure if she could even consider it. Ruvja happened. What would she do about her daughter?

"Many others vie for my favor, hunter. If you will not track the prey, there will be someone else who will. Your choice."

A thousand guttural growls surrounded her, beady eyes of predators staring her down, dotting the darkness like a sky of red stars. She swore she heard voices whisper from their dagger-fanged maws, goading her to choose. The skull still hung in the air over her, waiting for a response. It was a simple yes or no answer. But it was stuck to the roof of her mouth. _You want this_, something sung to her,_ you've always wanted this_. Forgetting her own voice, thoughts muddled into disarray, Svensa stared into the eyes of the Daedric Prince and mouthed an answer.

"My hand is yours."

A deep growl echoed, booming like an avalanche rolling through the Jerall Mountains. She was certain it was supposed to be a laugh. All the same, she shuddered in fear.

"You are a hunter, mortal."

There were hundreds upon hundreds of eyes at his back, reflecting the light of a full moon. It was the color of blood. The empty air was filled with whooping and barking and howling- Svensa felt her heart race in her ears as the silhouette of a tall, tall man began to become more distinct behind the stag's skull.

"You are already mine."

The air was sucked from her lungs as the darkness receded back, almost pulling her forward with it. She blinked once, catching her breath and opening her eyes to a flurry of snowflakes in her face. And she was alone with her kill at her feet. The mountain wind was howling.


	6. Chapter Five: Glaring

The morning was cold, with a thick blanket of fog covering the road and shrouding the land like a wool coat on a sheep's back. Though the forest was far from asleep, many creatures of day had not yet emerged. When the first rays of sunlight touched the mossy bed below the trees, a single songbird began its warble. Abruptly cut off when a well placed arrow pinned it to the trunk of a tree, gleaming with silver.

"Was that really necessary?" asked Arentin. "We're supposed to save those."

"Do you want an archer who can shoot or do you want a lame duck?" Sirk bit back, peeling off the bowstring. "There's no harm. Plus I'm bored."

"Tanicus was clear on what the boss wanted," he said. "If we die because you wasted our silver-"

"We won't die Aren. This is a fool's errand, anyway," insisted Sirk. He kicked a pebble along the road, watching it disappear into the mist. "Can't believe I'm at the point where a lizard's giving orders."

Arentin had to literally bite his tongue at that remark to keep himself from snapping back. He respected Tanicus. 'Was nothin' important about him having a few scales. Didn't stop him from killing the sabre cat before it sank its fangs further into his shoulder. He still owed him for that. Why Sirk had such a problem with the guy was something he had trouble comprehending. 'Nord stuff' and all that mammoth dung. Hated bunking with him, hated scouting with him. Never minding the fact that he was undeniably a very good shot with a bow.

"Didn't'cha see that head he was hauling though? The other guys came back shaking in their boots," he said, switching the subject just a tad to the left.

"That thing? Looked like something outta a traveling khajiit show. Never seen anything like it up and walking," Sirk remarked.

Neither had Tanicus, apparently. Dropped the decaying thing over the fire pit like it was burning his hands. Never said a word about it, but told the twenty of them that they were heading out at dawn. Two at a time, in ten different directions. Which was kinda weird, considering they normally went in groups of five. Just what was the boss planning? Catching monsters like crusading agents of Stendarr? Arentin could spit, he was so annoyed. Sirk was annoying. This job was annoying. The mist and the cold were annoying. Whole damn provenience was-

"Hey, you know there could be a lotta gold involved if we find it first," said Sirk.

"Find what? What are we hunting?" he asked, exasperation setting in.

"Easy, something big, ugly, sick, and full of teeth. Or whatever," he replied.

Or whatever. The _clarity_ of that statement.

"Ya know, we could just try and pick up that werewolf's trail instead. Easier," said Arentin. But then he saw Sirk grin. Oh no.

"What if we get both?" he suggested.

Gods, no. Not for a million septims.

"If we come across two abominations of nature, I'm running," said Arentin.

"You're just scared because you can't shoot," he prodded.

Aren punched his arm in response, which immediately had him pulling his hand back to cradle it. It was like hitting a brick wall. Sirk had the nerve to laugh. Damn Nords.

"Anyway, we both don't wanna be out here. Make the most of it and take a few feathers to put in your hat," he said, reaching up and peeling the arrow out of the tree trunk. At that height, Aren couldn't've reached it if he stood on his toes.

They walked on as he plucked the bird's bright blue feathers, watching as the mist started to dissipate. All of a sudden, Sirk chucked the bird into a bed of ferns with a noise of disgust.

"What?"

"Thing was sick. Had worms crawling under the skin," he said, crinkling his nose.

Arentin grimaced in agreement and kept walking, trying not to shudder at the idea of something under _his_ skin. Out of all the guys who caught a glimpse of the head, he was the one to retch. Never dealt with that kinda stuff very well. Probably the reason he didn't wanna transfer north. Heard that some of the other groups kept beast heads on stakes. Nah, better here. Despite how much he hated Sirk.

"Think we should head down to Falkreath and ask around? Too far a walk for Riverwood," he said.

"They'll think we're bandits, Aren. Some of us were," Sirk replied.

Oh. Yeah, that.

"What if we're nice?"

"You ever tried being nice before?" Sirk laughed.

"Once. They didn't like my breath," he replied.

That earned a bark out of them both. Naw, they didn't like each other, but there was room for laughs.

"Well, we got werewolves to track, monsters to find, and a huge sack of gold to earn by the end of it. Might as well scare 'em half to death with our singing," said Sirk.

Arentin's face contorted into an expression of horror, realizing exactly what he was implying.

"Sweet mother Mara, no-"

"Oooh there once was a-"

"I'm begging you."

"-Hero named Ragnar the Red,"

"Stop,_ please_."

The two men went on down the misty cobbled road, their ruckus drowning out the sounds brought with daybreak. Around them, the snow fell in curtains from the treetops, the birds sang in mirth, and the sky finally turned a beautiful blue. One figure stayed behind, watching from high above as the scene unfolded. Concealed by the thick cover of green branches, there was never a moment they bothered to look up.

Only after their voices faded into the distance did they jump down, landing on the forest floor almost without a sound. All in all, the stranger looked very similar to them, but with a touch of something more sinister. Maybe it was because their shoulder pad bore the same emblem as them, but with an angry red streak through the center. They almost chuckled, but instead withheld their breath. Taking stride, they set off in the opposite direction.

_Just wait until Krev hears about this one_.


	7. Chapter Six: Pleading

"But why?" she cried in betrayal.

"Roo, we've been over this-"

"No! No, no, no!"

"Oh for- Ruvja. You're getting to old for tantrums," said Svensa, folding her arms across her chest.

She was trying her damnedest not to snap, but after stumbling down the mountainside yesterday with the finest cuts she'd ever carved bleeding over her shoulders and visions of claws and teeth and eyes clouding her dreams, she was teetering near the edge of it. If she could just get her daughter on her feet and in the right direction, she would be set for today at least. But the idea was not sitting well with Roo at all, who was faceplanted in the dirt at the moment. She whined into the mulch, hoping that any amount of muffled despair would change her mother's mind.

"I can't take you with me. You're too young."

"But I won't get in the way! I hunt with you all the time!" she insisted.

"Yes, but those were smaller. There's gonna be a lot of travelling and you won't be able to keep up," explained Svensa. "It's gonna be a lot more dangerous too."

Strange how a little white lie could hold so much truth in her words. As far as her daughter knew, this was just an extended hunting trip that could stretch on for weeks. Svensa had not gone on one since she was only just with child. It wasn't easy then. Get up, be sick, and keep tracking. When she finally had Roo, her entire world and reckless persona twisted into something more guarded and wary. _Until you weren't._

Necessary. Regrets would not keep her child from starving. Standing idle would not stop this sickness from spreading. And saintly intentions were nothing in the eyes of Lord Hircine, who could call his hounds upon the richest noble Cyrodiil. Who had picked her, of all mortals, to carry out his will. Laughable, when other hunters had better chance with their dogs and ivory bows. It might've been intentional. Where's the thrill of the hunt without the challenge? But that was not going to stop her. Ruvja would be safe. She'd see to that, even if her little girl disagreed.

"It's almost a three day trek towards Falkreath, Roo," she stated. "We either leave now or we walk through the night."

"I'm not going!"

"You'll be fine. Don't you want to see Aunt Indara and Uncle Mathies? Or Lavinia?" she pried.

'Aunt and uncle' being a rather broad term. Mathies was actually her cousin by marriage. It didn't matter, her definition of family had always been lax. They loved Ruvja as a niece and in turn Svensa cared for their daughter as her guardian, however distant she may be. Pity the trip had to be so long, she would have camped closer. Something about the town always had her turning heel- Siddgeir. Siddgeir was the reason why. Still, Roo would love the farm and she would be safe while she was gone.

Well, at least that managed to get her to sit up. She didn't miss the hesitation crossing her features, before falling back into a pout. Roo picked up a stick and began peeling at the bark.

"C'mon then, I heard they just got lambs."

Despite the grumbles, something cracked in her daughter's stubbornness that her standing to help her mother pack. Albeit with dragging feet. Svensa could only sigh. No matter how well they'd take care of her, she would miss Ruvja with all her being. She swore she'd come back to her as soon as she had this whole... mess sorted out. Still, it'll be nice to visit family. One can only put up with the solitude and shunning of Riverwood for so long.

The trip was peaceful, for the most part. Nobody bothered them on the road. Much less the animals, which had them both confused. Sure, there were birds and a few elk. But as for predators? Nothing.

_ Defiling both hunter and prey. _

Was the sickness already allowed so much time to spread?

Svensa poked one of the logs further into the fire, watching orange sparks sputter and float into the air. Everything felt so much more still and stagnant, the deeper they went into the forest. As though the trees just muffled every sound the wind carried. Like screaming into a pillow. She leaned back, gazing into the deep nest of stars above, lightly blanketed by smoke. Almost jumped out of her skin when she felt something touch her shoulder.

"Momma?"

"Roo," she gasped. "You scared me."

Her daughter looked to the ground, pulling the furs tighter around herself. Svensa's eyes softened.

"Can't sleep?"

A nod. She held her arms out, bringing the child into her lap. She rested her chin on her head, rocking her slightly. Ruvja leaned into her, tilting her head up.

"What happened to the white deer?" she asked.

"I brought some of the better meat down, but he was too big for me to carry it all," Svensa explained. "When I came back, he was gone."

"Why?"

"Something else was hungry, I think. Probably a bear," she said.

Despite the fact that she remembered coming back to an empty snowdrift on the mountain with no drag marks, no blood, and no footprints except her own. As though it had never happened. As though the heart and shoulders in her bags were the only proof it hadn't all been a nightmare. Or a dream.

When she turned back down to Ruvja, she was already drifting off to sleep. She cradled her into a more comfortable position in her arms, planting a light kiss on her forehead. She'd fix this.

"For your sake." she whispered into her hair.

For Hircine's glory, whispered her mind.

She spent the rest of the night unsettled, watching the sky turn from indigo to pink. Watching the world sleep and wake without her. Dagger in her fingers, her daughter's head in the crook of her arm. 

Falkreath emerged from the afternoon fog like the yawn of a giant. Like the stretch of sinew. There was a gloom here that Svensa never understood. A silent grief that never faded. An endless sleep. They walk in from the east gate, the guards looking down upon their forms with caution, but not disdain. She nods to the one who greets. A man with greasy black hair and a heavy cloak gives her a half smile from the Inn's porch. In return, she casts a small wave.

Unlike Riverwood, or Whiterun. Where she'd be lucky to get through the day without confrontation. The only hold that did not shun her and yet she still felt no desire to embrace its civilities. So easy to see where Ruvja inherited her stubbornness from.

The farm is empty when they reach it. Soil overturned, cattle chewing, but no people. Svensa senses it on the air; something is wrong. She can't hear Indara's humming. Or Mathies's grumbling. Or Lavinia's light laughter. Something is very, very wrong. She can however, hear a sermon. Echoing up from the rows and rows of tombstones. The hand leading her daughter squeezes a bit too tight. Blood pumping in her ears, prayer on her lips, she walks down.

And feels the color drain from her face as a little coffin is gently lowered into the earth.


	8. Chapter Seven: Gripping

The guards, who were almost a head taller than her, practically leapt out of her way as she stormed into the barracks, jaw set and fist clenched around a long carving knife on her belt. Not even the fires of Oblivion could stop her now; she was out for blood. Mathies told her through choked breaths exactly what transpired. Not a month ago, not even a week- but two days ago her goddaughter had been torn to ribbons. By a man. A man they had let _live._ Threw him into the solitary cell in the belly of the earth. Reserved for when the guards saw someone as too dangerous to be with other prisoners. There was still time before he was sentenced. Still time before she left at her Lord's will. Two days. She could've stopped him, if only she'd been there. Sensed the danger before the child was lost.

_ Then make up for it, _whispered her self, melodic and sweet as a lyre. Lethal and serrated as her blade. _Twist the dagger in the soft of his gut. Tear his throat out with your teeth. _The whirling firestorm in her chest only grew harsher as a familiar faced prison-watch held the door for her. She went down into the prison two steps at a time, holding only one intention. But something went slack when she turned to stare the murderer down, her mind drawing a blank.Though her grip did not loosen on the hilt, her eyes still fluttered in mild shock.

At the back end of the wall, soaked knee deep in water, stood barely a man. His face was almost obscured by shadow from the lip of the well above, but she saw plenty. From where she was standing, she could see long, unkempt hair. Dark bruises. Jutting ribs. Spidery limbs. Gaunt eye sockets. He was small for a Nord. Small for a man in general. She had no doubt that the guardsmen had not been giving him anything. Why throw food before a rabid dog? He was, by all accounts, a miserable sight. Skin on bone. She stepped up into his line of sight, watching the eyes in his head roll to face her. He pushed himself off the wall and waded over to her. He reeked of wood and sweat and blood and dog.

"Come to gawk at the beast, kinswoman?"

_No kin of mine. Never. _

"Or something else? I can smell it on you."

Svensa pulled the blade from its sheathe ever so slightly, narrowing her eyes in hatred. She would not give him the pleasure of an answer. Prey was not addressed until the hunt was over. And the war drum in her chest still beat with a feral rage. Still, he caught the shift in her gaze.

"You've met him, then," said the creature, "What if I could offer you a boon, in exchange for my freedom?"

She scoffed, almost laughing in his face and took her hand from the hilt. Green eyes gleamed beneath her hood, the malice in them reflecting against the water. Save him? Release him? Her expression only darkened further, holding nothing but contempt and deep seeded hatred for the feeble, sniveling mess who stood across from her. She leaned further in, winding her arms around the bars. A mirror image of this- this _dog_ who dared to even suggest such a thing.

"I’m here to kill you. We both know that," she whispered through a set jaw.

He shifted on his feet, almost taking a step back, out of her shadow and back into the daylight shining down from above. As though it might save him from the pure wrath held with so few words. Dripping from her lips and tainting the water around him a deep red. Still, he had the audacity to ask.

“What was she to you?”

“The ring, cur. Lest I receive repayment here and now for all that you’ve done. Not just for her sake, but unto the one you had first stolen from,” Svensa demanded, the words spewing from her lips before she could stop them. She almost balked back.

She never spoke this way. Never spoke so much. The command came with such fluid, but in a foreign way. Like water pouring from stone. As though it was not truly her own fury she was bridling. Another voice, slowly unhinging something sinister and leaking out from behind her eyes and tongue in a darker language she was barely feathering over. And yet she meant every word of it. His face now held one of true fear at the realization and he twisted at the band around his finger. He had tried to hide the artifact from her vision, but she saw the mark of Storihbeg glimmer as soon as she first stepped in. He didn’t need to say a word, she already knew what he was. What he'd done.

“So, you _are_ of Hircine’s following. Fine, take it. I want nothing more to do with it,” he said, shoving his hand through the bars. 

The ring still coiled around his finger as he waited for her to pull it off herself. She stared down at it for a moment, looking up to meet his pleading gaze with raised eyebrows and a face that screamed “you’re pathetic.” There was still the opportunity to walk away. Stab the knife through his outstretched arm and leave him to bleed. _His life is in your hands. Take the leash and command the hound to heel. _He was almost less than a man, soon to be nothing more than a beast. But in the meantime, she could fit the muzzle over his nose and have his strength in the hunt. 

"Free me," he again insisted, "and I will help you with whatever hunt he tasked you."

Without a second thought, she took the bad from his thin, clawing finger and slipped it over her own. In place, it would not budge. Knitted to the skin until she broke the ring of its curse. Tiny ruby eyes stared back at her as she examined it, reminding her once again where her soul would be doomed to reside. Where Sinding would be doomed to run.

She doesn't look back up as the sound of bones cracking and muscles stretching begin to echo off the walls. Or when the shadow facing her morphs from something like a man to something twisted and wrong. Or when a pained whimper turns to a deep growl. Instead, she turns around and sprints up the steps and out into the daylight in an effort to keep up with the murderer as he scales the throat of the well and sends the metal cover on top flying. She pursues into the forest, barely on two legs. The silver ring around her finger almost burns.


	9. Chapter 8: Cursing

The first rainstorm of the melt rolled through the hills and valleys, creating a fine sheen of ice over the muddy roadways and burying the snowdrifts in a filthy gray slush. A traveler, soaked to the bone through their wool cloak, tromped through the slippery mess during the dead of night. Once or twice they staggered, cursing as the ice pulled their feet out from under them. This continued for some time, on the open road. Every once in a while they would pause, whip their head over their shoulder, then keep walking. And one might wonder why they did not bother with a lantern at least, if the night brought such irritation.

Their path remained constant, in a single direction. But then suddenly veering off into the trees towards the mountainside, which was still piled high with a thick layer of winter dusting. They clambered over the crags, seemingly set on a destination somewhere in the shadow of the peak. Then they once again stopped, head twisting in both directions before ducking into the shadows and vanishing, footprints and a momentary ripple in the air the only indication they ever existed at all.

A crevice in the rock materialized from the mist. An open vein in the mountain. Revealed only under moonlight. Whispers exchanged, barely enough to be caught on the wind. Shifting, climbing, creeping, then darkness. Complete blackness. Sound echoing through the walls, creating a grim outline of each chamber.

Pages turning in books. Glassware clinking against tables. Nails drumming. Humming. Bubbling and grinding. Water splashing, wading, sloshing. Ice cracking. Bones creaking. Moans of pain. Growls of anger. Snarls of beasts. Chuckling. Something writhing. Muttering. Chains dragging. Wood against wood. Sipping. Scratching. Crackling. A door opened after a key turned with a click.

Deadly spells dancing in a pair of floating hands. A circle of unlit candles illuminated by a rune sparking with bridled fire. A brazier, embers smothering, cracking, popping. Antlers, sinews, skulls, ribs stacked high outlining the shape of a monstrosity no creature would know the name of. Dark puddles, red streaks. Shifting robes. Whispers, like hissing serpents. A nod to the shadows, the shadows nod back and dissipate. The door unhinges like the jaw of a starving animal, swilling something black down its gullet.

The clunk of a door bar. The smell of dried herbs. The stench of blood, burnt hair, and hot oil. The soft shift of carpet beneath worn leather boots. A deep shadow, outlined in red, infernal light. An altar, stained deep with damnable dark matter. The visitor knelt low to the floor, nose brushing against the stone bricks slick with ice. And something else. The figure before him did not even turn, currently preoccupied with mixing numerous concoctions.

"I presume that there is a reason for such interruptions," said the figure. His voice was a smooth, low note. Yet it held an edge, betraying his annoyance.

"The Silverhand-"

A hand slammed against the altar, causing everything on it to jump. The visitor flinched and bowed lower still, laying their hands out in front of them. Magic crackled and a glass bottle on the opposing shelf exploded, sending shards flying across the carpet.

"Were my instructions not clear? I thought we were at an understanding that you were to keep a low profile," he said. His palms came alight with fire. "Or do I need to replace my southern scouting party with one more discreet?"

"Forgive me, my lord. For my lack of clarity," they said, swallowing. "They come hunting a rogue beast from the plains. They know not of our doings."

"Then you have brought me only tattles and whispers? In my time of work?"

"No, my lord. An opportunity. Their numbers are stretched thin searching for the creature. There is gain to be made from this!"

"You are suggesting that I take them as prisoners, when they are known to have numbers, ties, and grudges. No. You are both indiscreet and ignorant, therefore having outlived your usefulness to me."

"Lord Volla_aauuUUAAGHHH!"_

Without a second thought, the figure idly flicked a fireball in his direction, immediately turning back to his work as the scout turned to a pillar of flame like kindling. With a wave of his hand, the flames grew stronger, silencing his screams and reducing him to cinders. The only indication that a conversation had taken place at all was the large pile of ash smothering in the center of the rug. With a bored sigh, his lordship resumed his steady progress.

And was yet again stirred by the door opening behind him. His hands clenched to fists, but he quickly restrained himself on account that this was one of his better agents behind him.

"I grow impatient."

"The hold's people are gullible at best. Suspicion has not risen in their ranks," said the hooded shadow in a strong Morrowind accent. "Trouble has arisen elsewhere that I cannot best."

"What then?" he almost spat.

"Hounds. They've fled to the woods. One bore the ring."

"Are they aware?"

"That is uncertain. They arrived on different days."

"Continue as you are. Any further shadowing will draw attention," ordered the figure. "If the dogs become a problem, kill them."

"We have not the numbers or strength to take down both," said the Dunmer.

"Then we will create the strength needed," he said, standing straighter. "Go back to the citizens and Jarl. I will handle the mongrels and their master."

"Pray tell, how?"

"You shall see eventually, my spy. You shall see. Begone, lest I kill you like the last wretch."

"Yes, Lord Vollanar," said the Dunmer, who rose and turned away.

"Do not fail me."

"I have yet to."

"Yet."

The solid, clasped door shut with a deep echo, shrouding the chamber in a blanket of silence. The lord's expression hardened to iron, sending a chill through the empty room. He turned on his heel, heading towards a stairwell bathed in the inky blackness of shadow. His feet did not miss a step, even as he went on without a torch or lantern to guide him. Soon the stairs stopped, opening into a chamber that so few others were ever allowed in. On the far wall, a pair of yellow eyes leered with hatred as he approached without caution and a heavy growl reverberated around him. He smiled wide in response, baring his teeth.

"Soon," he said aloud. "Soon you will know what it means to bend."

The beast's eyes flashed as it snarled, froth dripping from its mouth and blood oozing from its wounds. It thrashed against its massive steel chains, claws reaching to tear his face off. Lord Vollanar leaned in further, just out of its reach. And laughed and laughed and laughed.


	10. Chapter Nine: Chasing

Daylight came earlier than she expected. A quick blink while lying against the smothering embers of her fire pit and the moss blanket she chose to rest on was bathed in sunlight. Perhaps it had truly only been a blink and she had again lain awake through the night. Perhaps the days were already growing longer. Or perhaps, she was just that tired. There was no way to know. At the very least, she was alive.

Svensa had chased her goddaughter's killer out of Falkreath and up towards the mountains, not giving rest until she was sure that he would not escape her. Manbeasts are known for their speed, but rarely their subtlety. Keeping up was impossible, but tracking him came with ease. His sheer desperation for freedom was evident by deep gouges in the earth and clumps of dark fur snagged on branches. A trail of breadcrumbs, spattered with dark red in some places. She found him in a crumpled heap near Helgen, naked and covered in mud. Too weak to give fight when she dragged him to a nearby tree and bound his still-dislocated wrists around it. There he remained up until her awakening, head bent through his shoulders after exhaustion claimed him sometime in the night.

She sat up, eyeing him with caution. Svensa knew that it took time to regain one's strength after a shifting, she just didn't know how much time that was. For all she knew, he was waiting for her to walk over so that he could once again reshape his bones and  _ lunge.  _ That was a possibility that she was not ready to face, so instead she let him be. If he lifted his head and asked for water or food, she would then bring forth her judgement as for whether or not to let him live.  _ He's already indebted to you,  _ spoke her mind. But she knew people did foolish and terrible things to skin themselves of debt. This she was no stranger to, having known foolishness and experienced the appalling. It had been long since either.

She stood, kicking out the last dying cinders and pulling a whetstone from her pouch. The silver band on her finger gleamed as she oiled and sharpened her blades, winking like a white hot star. She paused, twisting at it and watching as the skin underneath pulled with it. Not so long now, that such impulses emerged to nip at her yet again despite her efforts to escape them. At the very least, her daughter was saved of such burdens.

Svensa had to wonder, why was it that she felt so compelled to go through with this? That she  _ had _ to? That a part of her  _ wanted  _ to? Was she ever free or were Hircine's words more true than they seemed? That the moment she first took up a bow and named it hers and shot a deer and named it her prey, she was bound to him and his whims? It seemed so choiceless.  _ And yet the choice was yours from the start, so said he. The bow, the deer, the ring, the prey. Denying it is to deny yourself. _

Sinding groaned, sitting up from his slump and clonked his head against the tree. He yelped, shifting his shoulder and soon discovering his predicament when he realized his arms weren't moving. She watched him struggle and flail, similar to a fish on a line. Finally his legs slipped out from underneath him, his body stretching from the base of the trunk at an awkward and painful looking angle. She blinked, turning back to her knives without so much as a second glance. If he wanted to dislocate his own spine trying to get away, so be it. One less thing for her to worry about.

She heard him pant and grunt in an effort to stand, feeling a thud through the earth as he fell back again. Svensa held the longer of her daggers up to the light, examining its edge and frowning when she spotted bits of corrosion that hadn't been there yesterday. Odd. She remembered cleaning it thoroughly after the wormed fox and hadn't used it since. She'd have to fix that before it got worse. As she worked at it with some sand and a damp cloth, she remembered how strange the animal had been acting before it died, same as some others she had seen before. Could it be? Sinding once again attempted to get up. She only knew this because her concentration was broken when he once again fell back down. She let out a sharp sigh in annoyance, turning to see him immediately trying again.

"Stop."

As if noticing her for the first time, Sinding paused, eyes rolling to meet hers, confusion evident. He looked to be waiting for something. An explanation, maybe. She did not indulge, simply turning back to the task at hand without another word. She could feel his scowl at her back.

"Is that all your going to say?"

. . .

"You chase me down, tie me to a tree, then just sit there?"

"I could've just killed you," she said. "Much easier."

"Madwoman," he muttered. "Look, whatever I did then I wasn't in control of. Just let me go and you'll nev- Urk!"

In half a stride and one swift move, her fist grabbed a handful of his greasy, blonde hair, yanking it back to expose his neck. Her dagger rested against the curve of his throat, following when he swallowed. Her dark glare bored holes into his silver eyes, which were wide fear.

"You'd think I'd forget your debt so soon?" she asked, turning her hand to show the ring. "I've done my part."

"N-no! I, uh. Look. I'm sorry. I-I was terrified, okay? I shouldn't have run," he said. "I do owe you. You're right. I owe you for the little girl and the ring and my life. Pl- Please, just-"

Svensa's hand slipped from his hair and the dagger disappeared from his neck, her point being made. She turned her back to him as she began rolling up her bedroll and sheathing her other knives. Behind her, the now-man shifted on his knees, letting out a breath.

"There's no way I can right what I've done. I deserve whatever Hircine has for me in the end. You've done enough, I'll repay you."

"Stop."

"What?"

"Just- stop. You're going to help me and you're going to shut up about what happened," she ordered, beginning to string her bow.

"Can you at least explain then?" he asked.

She slumped slightly, looking down and holding the weapon in a white knuckle grip. Apparently having made up her mind, she sighed through her nose.

"Things are dying. Manbeasts are disappearing," she said, walking back over to him and brandishing a knife.

He let out a yelp as she cut his binds in one swipe, letting him fall to the ground in a heap. Instead of reaching down and helping him up, she turned back around and grabbed her quiver, strapping it to her hip. She slung her pack over her shoulder and pulled her animal skin hood down.

"Something's causing it. We're hunting it."

Svensa gave her bowstring a quick test and slipped it around her shoulders, turning back to face him. Sinding looked bewildered. Picking a direction, she walked. He scrambled up, following her. They continued up towards the nearest road for some distance before she finally clarified.

"I need your senses. Extra eyes while I-" she cut herself off, peeling off her bow and firing a quick shot into the nearby underbrush. Something squeaked. "Travel."

She pulled a threadbare sack from her pack and reached down, pulling a rabbit up by its feet. Wordlessly, she held it out for him to see. And slit its belly open. Sinding's face paled as worms began to writhe to the surface. She nodded at him, stuffing it into the bag and tying it shut. He remained planted, watching as she continued up the road towards Helgen.

"Search the hills and fields of the surrounding holds for strange smells," she said aloud. "I'm heading for Whiterun."

"Got a name?" he called, finally finding his voice.

He barely caught it as she neither stopped nor turned back.


	11. Chapter Ten: Dreaming

She dreamed. She dreamed of sprinting through the pine forests, warm wind at her back and soft needles beneath her bare feet. She dreamed of an endless eternal daylight, of cotton clouds painted on a blue sky. Her laughter bubbled light and her arrows hit every mark. She tracked rabbits to their burrows, chased frogs to their foam, and met gazes with a fawn, sleeping among the brambles. When her mother called her, she knew exactly how to find her. When her mother called her, she had but to turn and instantly find place in her arms.

Though her voice was a familiar murmur, she found that she couldn't meet her mother's eyes. No matter how far she turned, all she could see was her lips, which were void of expression. They pursed and parted in a sigh. She snuggled further against her and asked what was wrong.

And was too shocked to scream when she bared her teeth in a snarl, wolf's fangs the length of fingers filling her mouth and a deep growl from her throat instead of an answer.

Ruvja woke with a start, heart still pounding in her chest. When her hand touched a cold stone wall instead of tanned hide, she jumped. Her head whipped around when she realized that she was neither in her bedroll, nor in her tent. She couldn't even smell the campfire smoke. For a complete moment, she was caught in a blind panic searching for something familiar, until it finally came back to her.

Momma was gone. She was at Auntie and Uncle's. She was okay. She told herself she was okay. Even though the nightmare still nipped at the back of her mind, it wasn't real. None of it was real.

When she finally mustered up the courage, Ruvja peeled back the itchy, roughspun sheets and stepped down onto the cold stone floor. She didn't remember waking up in Lavinia's bed, but then again she didn't remember much of anything after Momma left her on the bench outside Auntie and Uncle's house. She was so tired yesterday from travel that she must have nodded off while waiting. She decided it would be best to ask Uncle Mathies what happened.

Tiptoeing across the one room house, she eyed the large elk head looming over the hearth, remembering how her mother told her that she had given the massive animal to them as a parting gift when she first visited them, after Uncle came into her family. She was around sixteen then. Ruvja told herself that one day she'd hunt something that big too, all by herself. Maybe that's what Momma was doing: hunting a really,_ really_ big elk.

"Uncle? Uncle," she whispered, shaking his shoulder.

His snoring cut off and she saw his nose twitch like a rabbit. She stifled a giggle.

"Lavi- Roo. It's too early," he half mumbled, turning over. "Go back to bed."

"But Uncle, it's not_ that_ early!" she insisted.

Momma and her got up before sunlight all the time to hunt. Besides, she must've slept the whole day yesterday. She was awake now and she was _hungry. _She strode over to the other side of the bed, gently tapping her shoulder.

"Wake up, Auntie," she said. "It's nearly sunrise!"

Aunt Indara stirred, but did not move an inch. She mumbled something unintelligible, pulling the blanket further over herself. Ruvja sighed in frustration, striding from one end of the bed to the other in some hope that her relatives would just _get up._ When that didn't work, she gave up and decided to go outside herself. She'd ask about Lavinia and Momma later. Standing on her toes, she unlatched the front door and walked out into the cool, early morning air.

Strangely enough, none of the animals were awake yet. The chickens were huddled in their roost, the goats were locked away in the barn, and the cow was just boring. Instead of sulking though, Ruvja walked down the dirt path towards the graveyard, unafraid of the dark and the quiet and the morning mist that clung to the ground. She ran her finger along the etched stones, fingers tracing the worn lettering. She asked Momma once, if she could learn to read one day. But her mother's response was confusing. Too confusing to remember. But she remembered Momma telling her that if she was truly set on learning, she'd find someone who could teach her.

Her thoughts were interrupted by the sudden shuffle of feet against moss. Looking up, she realized she was not actually alone at this early hour. She couldn't see them too well; whoever it was wore a long, dark travel cloak and a scarf to keep their face warm. They barely looked like more than a shadow. She saw them hunch down in front of a grave, arm reaching out to touch the headstone. Eager to have at least someone to talk to, she took a chance and walked over.

"Are you looking at the headstones too?" she asked.

The shadow bristled, shoulders hiking up to their neck. It turned, staring her up and down for a moment before relaxing. They nodded.

"I suppose I am," said a man's voice. "And who might you be? I haven't seen you before."

"I'm Ruvja," she said simply. "I'm visiting. What's your name? Do you live here?"

"Inquisitive little thing, aren't you?" the shadow chuckled. "Call me Nalron. Like you, I'm visiting."

"Family?" she asked.

"Something of that sort. Aren't you afraid?"

"Of what?"

"The dark, the dead, strange men in graveyards?" he asked.

"No," she replied. "Why?"

"It is wise," was his answer. She didn't get it.

"Why?"

...

"Do your parents know you're out this early?"

"No," she said. "And they're not my parents."

"That so?" he exclaimed. "Bad things happen to little girls who wander off."

"I wander all the time," she said. "I'm not scared."

The shadow chuckled, standing up and ruffling her hair. His nails were uncomfortably long against her scalp. It was one of those moments when grown ups thought they were better, she could tell. She stepped out from under him, trying to make out his face against the darkness. The only thing that she could see were his eyes, though. They gleamed from under his hood, while the rest of him blended with the night.

"Go back to bed, Ruvja. The night is waning, but not over yet. All kinds of creatures still lurk in the woods," he said, already walking away.

"My momma would hunt them," she said, regaining some semblance of pride. "They'd be scared off or eaten."

She saw him stop in his tracks and turn slightly. Thinking she'd managed to surprise him, she smiled. Instead, she saw the corner of his eyes crinkle, before he kept on walking. Lost, she stared after the shadow until he rounded a corner and disappeared. She blinked, turning back to the graves and set to work gathering mushrooms and flowers.

* * *

The door to the keep opened and closed, a large shadow standing in the doorway and pooling across the floor. The guards ignored it, already fighting back sleep as their shift was coming to a close. The figure slunk over to a door, waving a spell over the lock that caused it to shimmer and click. He stepped in without so much as a sound.

"Well, what of it?" asked Siddgeir, looking up from his book.

"They're_ thoroughly_ convinced. The money will be coming in soon," said the shadow.

"Excellent. Hopefully those louts will pay up this time," he said, standing. "Now about your payment..."

"I need two men, both able bodied and strong enough for strenuous work."

"Just two? Fine," said Siddgeir, gazing out into the hall for a moment before ducking back in. "See those two by the door? Take them. I can always hire more."

"Thank you, my Jarl," said the shadow, bowing at the waist and turning to leave.

"Nalron," called Siddgeir. The figure turned. "I've been hearing reports of strange activity on the borders of my Hold."

"Nothing to concern yourself over, my Jarl. I'll see to it," he replied.

"Good. I knew I could count on you."

The door closed behind the shadow with barely a creak and the visitor let out a long held breath as he leaned against it. He adjusted the cloth covering his mouth and nose and stood up straight, walking over to the door. He snapped his fingers in the guards' faces, who immediately jumped from their drowsiness and stood at attention. Before either of them could get a word out though, a spell materialized in each of his hands and shot towards them. With an unnatural jolt, both men stood stock still.

He waved his hand in a beckoning motion, ordering the guards to follow. Which they did, movements stiff like puppets as they walked out after him. All three figures were already beyond the gates when the sun began to rise, soon disappearing into the deep, deep woods.


	12. Chapter Eleven: Trekking

The road stretched on, twisting and dipping with the land, deep indents from years of carts and wagons made its middle bend and curve like a broken spine. Moss and fern shoots poked through its cracked stones, already battling each other for sunlight as the days grew warmer.

Svensa traveled by whatever means suited her at the moment, which was typically not the road. Not to say that it wasn't efficient, but the forest had its own hidden paths that only an experienced and long placed tracker knew to follow. Her clan had hunted here numerous seasons, before withdrawing towards Bruma and the mountain peaks where the war could not reach. She didn't use the trails often, with Ruvja. Too dangerous after years of inactivity and seclusion. These were _hunting _routes after all.

Once, when she was much younger, she had a chance encounter crossing paths with a sow and her cubs on the very same trails. The teeth in her shoulder had not sunk deep, but the fever that followed had. Her elders called her many things as she lay bedridden, sweating and delirious. Foolish. Wild. Stupid. She learned two important lessons that day. One: Carry pouches of ground deathbell and fire salts on your person wherever you go. And two: Mothers will go for the throat.

But just as a few days before, the road was unusually quiet, almost devoid of large animals. On a normal day, one could hear the wolves on the wind and the elk bugling across the lake nearly all hours of the day. But today, dead silence. It was like they knew what was happening, fleeing the forest before the disease took them as well. She could not blame them.

It was eerie, the silence. Especially when walking alone. It left too much room for thinking. Something that Svensa did not want at the moment. Sinding just picked a direction and ran after they were past Helgen, with the promise that he would do as he was told. Needless to say, she was glad his presence was gone. The man reeked of blood, still water, iron, and animal. He was the worst a werebeast could possibly be. Desperate. Starving. Rampant. No amount of pleading or sorrow could tempt her to sympathize with him, let alone bring up the very _notion _of forgiving him. Never. Hircine's wrath take him. Lavinia deserved better.

She frowned deep at that thought. More than anything else right now, she needed a distraction. But the forest gave nothing, almost already dead. The silence stretched on and Svensa was left alone with the burden of her thoughts.

As the daylight began to ebb away, Svensa used every shortcut at her disposal to get as far down the White River as possible. She needed to get to Whiterun before the rabbit in her bag went bad. And if the worms were as abnormal as she suspected, that wouldn't be long at all.

From the moment she had split its belly open, maggots and rot made their way to the surface, as though it had already been dead. She had no idea what she was dealing with. Beasts and wild things she could track, hunt, and skin without trouble. But where do you begin with this? She just had to get to an alchemist, or a priestess, or anyone that could point her in the right direction. Otherwise, she was completely in the dark.

Svensa leaned against a nearby tree and sighed deep through her nose, fingers twirling at the antler shard hung around her neck. It was times like this when she wished she had some sound advice. Or at least, a shoulder to lean to and confide in. She missed her daughter deeply. And there weren't many people she knew that would so much as speak with her for longer than fifteen minutes tops, not that she was one for conversation. Perhaps it was her own fault, for preferring to be alone. Why bother if you could do it better by yourself?

_The wolf who hunts alone is often the most feared. You are more dangerous than you know._

No sooner had that strange thought past her mind that she heard a branch snap from five paces behind her. Before her mind even processed what she was doing, her bow was in her hands, the string taut, nocked, and pointing around the bend of the tree. She saw a pair of hands fly up in surrender and blinked in surprise at the familiar face.

"Faendel," she said, her voice impassive.

She saw the elf's shoulders slump slightly, a sigh of relief passing through a nervous smile. He kept his hands up, turning towards the underbrush behind him.

"It's alright, Valdr. It's just Svensa and her daughter," he called.

Further back into the woods, the blonde Nord popped up from his hiding spot in a patch of ferns. He raised his arm in a short wave and made his way over, sheathing his dagger.

"Svensa? You're a bit far out from your usual spot. Everything alright?" he asked as he clambered through the bushes.

"No," she called back.

She brought her bow down to her side and let out a long breath. Why bother lying anyway? This was not alright. Nothing about the past week had been right.

"Why?" he asked, glancing around. "Where's Ruvja?"

She thudded back against the tree, watching the two exchange glances. She had heard through the grapevine on what became of Valdr's hunting party. How Faendel found him bleeding out in front of a cave and helped him avenge his fallen friends against spriggins. In exchange, they split the profit of the bears they were originally after down the middle. It was almost a given that these two would hunt together eventually. However, their personalities couldn't be more different.

"Long story," she said.

"Valdr, it's getting dark, I don't know-"

"We've been at it all day. Besides, she looks more tired than we do," he countered, turning back to her. "Would you like to camp with us tonight?"

She considered it for a moment, questioning if it was really worth the effort to try and explain everything that happened. The stag, the Huntsman, the disease, Lavinia, Sinding, the prey- she'd have to condense it, because Oblivion knows what it would take just to explain her motive. Still, was it that obvious how much this was weighing on her? Valdr couldn't have been any closer to the truth. She was tired. And right now, a fire sounded like the best plan.

"That'd do," she replied, letting something close to a smile ghost her features.

Despite Faendel's sputtered response and nervous looks, she helped them set up a fire for the night by clearing out nearby brush. The Bosmer lived and worked in Riverwood, where naturally he had heard all the rumors about her and her affiliations. Telling him of Hircine would be a mistake. Valdr might be a touch more accepting, since he had long hunted in the deepest parts of the forest, where some of the most dangerous beasts and men in Skyrim resided and found refuge. But she couldn't count on that. Other than being a territory over from her and living in Falkreath for all his life, she knew nothing of him or his beliefs. Best to water the story down, then.

The three of them settled down when the moons were high and the sky was alight with green aurora. Svensa sat opposite to the two of them, poking a log further into the flames. Faendel's hands wrung as he spoke up.

"Well? Are you going to tell us what's going on?" he asked.

"Are you going to listen?" she asked in response, green eyes meeting his dark ones from beneath her hood.

"Yeah! Yeah. We will," he said.

"Take all the time you need, we're listening," said Valdr

She nodded at him in thanks, putting the poking branch down and reaching for her bag.

"I'm headed to Whiterun, in order to identify something that I found," she said, voice wavering and tongue uncertain. "I don't know if you've noticed, but animals are disappearing."

"What of it?" asked Faendel.

She took a moment to collect her thoughts. It was like she had to weed the words from her head, peel them out one at a time. She untied the sack in her lap, gazing down into it. Shock struck her when she peered in and saw that the rabbit was now reduced to a mass of black, writhing worms. Instead of pulling it out like the initial plan, she simply tied it back shut and placed it as far away from her spot as possible.

"It's getting worse," she said. "It's a parasite. But not a natural one."

"How did you reach that conclusion?" asked Faendal.

"Because of the way it feeds. Instead of keeping the animal alive, it gives it an early death. It's slow. Not even the animal knows its rotting from the inside out," she explained.

"Are you saying that- no. That's completely outlandish," said Valdr.

"What?" she asked.

"...Necromancy?"

"There are easier ways to control the dead," said Faendel, resting his chin on his hands. "But then again, I don't know anything about magic."

"Me neither," said Valdr. "I've had my fair share already. You, Svensa?"

"No."

The three of them sat in silence, staring into the fire and trying to ignore the forest's shadows and cries of sick animals, ill omens, dark magic, dead children, and twisted beasts.

When Svensa turned over for the night, she was left with more troubles than reliefs and more questions than answers. What was there to gain by possessing woodland creatures? And what did it have to do with the Huntsman's hounds? Just as she began drifting off to sleep, she heard Faendal's voice over the last crackles of the smothering embers at her back.

"-lying."

"What's the problem, Faen? She's got no reason to lie," Valdr whispered.

"The problem? Just ask anyone in Riverwood. Saying things like she speaks to the Forsworn, dabbles in necromancy, and worships Daedra," he said, voice quiet. "I'm sorry Valdr, but she's not an easy person to trust."

"This is from the Bosmer who traded his jungle and Pact for poaching game and working at a lumber mill," she spoke up without moving. She could almost feel his flinch from where she lay.

"You showed up out of nowhere," he said. "You wore bones and skins and carved meat in the open, you've made poison upon poison at the inn, you glared at anyone who so much as looked at you. What are we supposed to think? That you have good intentions?"

"When this whole thing is done and over, I'll take Roo south. You won't see me again," she called.

That was a very open statement, one that she could not promise to uphold. Bruma was harsh and icy year round, with dangerous animals, stricter laws, and the more refined atmosphere that came with any Cyrodiilian city. And besides that, she did not want to go back. There was nothing there for her. And she was not certain exactly how she was going to walk away from this, if at all by the end of it.

_Lone wolves are something to be feared._

But it is such a frightening thought, to die alone and hated.


	13. Chapter Twelve: Aching

While the night came and went, Svensa's troubles only seemed to grow worse. Her sleep was plagued with nightmares of ruby red eyes and dagger length teeth. Claws scraping over bark, her nails digging into the damp earth. Hot, rank breath against the back of her neck and the ground caving beneath her bare feet. Antlers, tall, branching and cradling a half full Secunda like fingers clutching about a dry skull. When she'd finally come to, the smell of dog still wafted about her head and the whites of her nails were clogged with mud.

She set out as soon as the stars began to fade, mindful to make herself scarce before the other two hunters awoke. Swiftly, she gathered her things and continued on down the White River, the sound of running water being her guide through the darkness just before dawn.

The sun was just starting to rise as she slipped up and around Riverwood, out through the northern gate, and across the bridge. The too few guards that were on night watch were too exhausted to give the shadows a second glance. Not that she had done anything wrong in the first place, but she was growing very weary of gossip and rumors in the only village within a day's trek of her hunting grounds. The less attention drawn, the better it would be.

At last, the rolling plains of Whiterun Hold emerged in the morning light before her like a sea of glimmering, molten gold. Ahead, just towards the northwest, the city's rooftops and stone walls were just beginning to shine, dawn's color's painting their wood the color of peach. Smoke began to billow from chimneys and forges nestled within as the first early birds awoke and prepared for the day. Dragonsreach, tall and imposing, bloomed from the darkness into the dawn like a ruler resting on its mighty throne and cast its long shadow across the land.

The sight reminded her of her time on the Golden Coast of Cyrodiil, in the city of Anvil. White horses prancing on golden, rolling grasses, that went on forever along the Abecean Sea. Red-orange rooftops made from sun baked clay shingles. The sound of slurred, drunken shanties and the calls of vendors bubbling up from the ports. Even the walls had been a mirror image. Tall, crumbling, and almost ancient after facing off the elves and their sieges during the Great War, with the temple of Dibella's bell tower standing high and regal over the rest of downtown, much like the keep that stood as the head of the city.

But that was where the similarities ended. Anvil was warm and coastal and bright and everything Whiterun was not. She'd left without a second thought, after having stayed in the area for two years. Perhaps if she left sooner, this cold, central, farming city would not bear any sense of nostalgia. And yet, so much would have been different as well. Svensa took in a deep breath of the saltless, early spring breeze and followed the road towards the gates. She had to be in and out of here within the same day. There was no time for reminiscing things long past.

By the time she pushed through the front gates of Whiterun, the sky was a dusted blue and the sunlight warmed the back of her neck as it peeked over the wall. Around of her, the majority of houses and shops of the Field District remained locked up tight as their owners slumbered through sunrise, save for the forge, which was already being bellowed awake. She saw two guards at a post speaking to each other, before trading places for the day. Far off in the distance, she could hear a rooster crow. The rush of the crowded city hadn't nearly begun yet. Right on time, then.

Instead of heading straight into the market, Svensa made an immediate turn right and went up the stairs into the richer residences and temple gardens of the Wind District. Absentmindedly, her hand brushed over the bottom of the small sack she was carrying by the laces. Something inside _squirmed _in response to her touch and her hand shot back into place at her side. She picked up the pace, weaving around planting plots and between houses, ducking into the the temple of Kynareth's front door as soon as it appeared. She could only hope that Danica wasn't prone to sleeping in.

The interior of the temple was just as she remembered it. Peaceful, warm, and healing. Already, light filtered in from the ceiling onto the blue and gold mosaic tiles below, making the main room shimmer with color. Crawling ivy hung from the rafters, neatly trimmed back to reduce leaf litter. And around the center of the floor, tiny fish darted about in the clear, moat fed pools.

Svensa had been here very few times. But every time she had, it had never been for a good thing. This time was no exception. She hugged the wall, staying well out of the way of the acolytes as they bustled about, beginning their duties as temple keepers and healers. Unsure whether or not to interrupt them and ask for the head priestess, she edged her way around the room towards their quarters, hoping to catch the woman before she became too busy. However as she did so, a young apprentice who couldn't have been older than thirteen almost rammed into her headfirst. The girl blinked up at her for a moment, before catching herself and apologizing.

"Danica," Svensa directed.

The girl let out a squeak and scurried back into the sleeping quarters, soon returning with the older woman. Svensa leaned against the wall and crossed her arms, an uncomfortable, nervous feeling sitting in the pit of her stomach that she had no name for.

"It's good to see you again, Svensa," said Danica, her voice gentle and weathered. "I trust you are well?"

Svensa gave a curt nod, throat too dry to speak all of a sudden. She mentally shook herself, chiding her nerves and dismissing her sweating palms. She swallowed hard as she met the woman's honest gaze.

"Your child?"

"Well and growing," she replied, voice hoarse. Her next words came out a little more than a whisper. "I need to speak with you."

Danica did a quick sweep of the room with her eyes, before turning back to her.

"I have some time."

The two of them settled in the back room, pulling two chairs against a desk to face each other. Svensa finally sat down for the first time all morning, peeling her pack off and setting the sack on the floor between them. While doing so, Danica gently snatched her hand and pulled it closer to examine. For a second, she was confused, until the priestess thumbed over the ring set around her finger. She saw her brow furrow and felt her gut twist.

"It's none of my business," she said, wiggling the head of it, "but this ring has a very strong curse on it. I'd suggest you get that fixed or seen to."

As soon as she said that, Danica let her hand drop. Svensa let out a long breath of something similar to relief, glad that the priestess didn't assume or call her out. She leaned down, undid the leather ties holding the sack closed, and pulled its mouth open.

Danica peered inside, her brow furrowed in confusion. A spell appeared in her hand and Svensa watched as she waved her palm over it in a circular motion. Then her face fell and she snatched her hand away, blinking her eyes in shock. The priestess shook her head and got up, the chair grating hard against the floor as she stood.

"I'll be right back. Farengar needs to see this," she said in a hurry, pushing past her.

Svensa listened to her disappear into the main hall, hearing the front creak open and slam closed. Her fingers found the silver wolf ring and she twisted at it in thought, feeling the flesh underneath follow. At the bottom of the bag, the rabbit blinked up at her and sniffed, its eyes blank and lifeless. Something deep inside her told her that she was nowhere near the answer she was looking for. _Because this is not natural._


	14. Chapter Thirteen: Tearing

_Naarty,_

_While your request for fourteen units of silver arrows has been noted, at this time we are unable to meet those demands an account of your continued incompetence. To resolve the continued lack of progress over the last month, along with your failure to eradicate the monster before it fled the region, Chief Dumaar has issued an order that provisions and pay be cut by 15%-_

She scoffed, tearing the letter in half.

"Basket headed, knuckle dragging horks..."

Crumpling the parchment into a ball, Naarty threw it across the cave floor towards the narrow passage into the neighboring chamber. She slammed her elbows against the table, rubbing at temples and sighing through clenched teeth. Who did he think he was, ignoring her requests for supplies? What were her men supposed to eat? She _needed _those arrows- almost all her men were trained with a bow.

Just because her division was stretched far from the Pale, he couldn't be bothered to see that their needs were met. If they'd given in to her last request for the next litter of dogs, then they would have never lost the scent on that rogue wolf. This. Was. His. Own. Fault.

She reached under her desk, finding a bottle underneath and uncorking it. After two swigs she placed it down, the alcohol burning the back of her throat like bile. He'd soon see. She'd have that monster's head _and_ the werewolf's skin. All wrapped up in pretty paper, with a big fat bow tying it together when she handed it to the Jarl of Whiterun. The look on their faces when she came in with passage and thanks from Jarl Balgruuf the Greater himself that they were free to poach on his turf would be aaalll worth the trouble. Her musings were interrupted by the echo of footsteps entering her chambers.

"Ma'am."

"Tanicus."

"There's something you should see."

"How nice."

She re-corked the bottle in front of her and stood, stars dancing in her vision from continued lack of sleep. The red scaled Argonian led her through the men's quarters, out to the central fire pit under the blue skies. Her eyes watered at the sudden change of light but she forced them to remain open, shielding her brow. The few men still remaining encamped were gathered around a bench near the open cooking fire, but were notably keeping their distance from whatever had caught their attention.

"Aye! Aren't you all supposed to be on the job? Finish eating and get to your stations!" she ordered.

Her burly band of bumbling boneheads began to disperse, some yelling a "yes, ma'am" through full cheeks as they horfed down the last of their meals. As they began to step away from the fire, she finally caught sight of what the commotion was about. A silver hand print, with an angry red line gashing through it. As soon as she saw the emblem, she dragged both hands down her face in exasperation.

"What's one of Krev's tracking pups doing this far out?"

"Taking a break. Why? Are we suddenly not allowed to do that?" they asked, their tone nonchalant.

"You're supposed to be in Eastmarch. With the rest of your skinners."

"Well. I'm not."

She looked up towards the sun, raising her hands with her eyes in a demand towards the gods, 'why me?' Krev's bunch was known for being arrogant at the best of times and a horrible, messy type of unhinged at the worst. This one, at least, she knew to be in that gray area. Defiant, underhanded, and positively unbearable in their attitude. Chances are, she would be walking away with a migraine.

"Go home, Vel."

She saw their eyes squint in a smile beneath their mask, daring her to try and make that an order. She crossed her arms across her chest, staring them down. They leaned back on the bench, head turning as they looked beyond her, into the mouth of the cave.

"There something here you don't want me to see?"

"Nothing that wouldn't bore you to tears. Now leave. I'm not asking again."

Their gaze darkened and they stood up sharply, chest to chest with her. Tanicus placed a hand on the hilt of his blade and behind her, she could hear blades being unsheathed and strings stretching. She held up a hand to stop them. Her men wouldn't stand a chance if they tried. She stood level with the tracker, the ice in their glare disappearing as they played it off and swiftly turned away from her.

"Fine, fine. You lot and your space. Settling for the scraps and measly posts no one else wants. It's as if you're a different faction entirely."

They walked over to the smothering ashes of the fire pit, kicking at the soot with their boot. From underneath, the off white of a black stained skull emerged. Without hesitance their heel came down, crunching it to pieces like a raw egg. They looked to her for a reaction, but Naarty didn't even blink. Even as they pulled a long fang from the ruined bone. They bounced it in their palm once before pocketing it.

"Distance and differences aside, you'd better not be."

Then they turned, picked up their gear, and began walking. She watched as they hiked eastward, across the tundra plains. Gold hills upon a blue sky, with a figure slowly becoming a minuscule dot as they disappeared over the bluff. One of her men asked if he could send them an arrow, once they were far enough from earshot.

"Krev would know. Then we'd be in deeper shit than we are."

With one last bark, she ordered her men to their posts. She had not said it aloud, had given no indication, but internally she was screaming- _Damn, damn, damn, damn!_


	15. Chapter Fourteen: Shifting

Out of all the things the curse had done to him, the sleepless nights were the worst. When he'd been more man than wolf, the blood pumped hot against his eardrums as he lay restless on his side. Adrenaline rushed through his veins as he gripped the sweat soaked sheets into tight fistfuls, shaking, shivering. He could never close his eyes, not truly.

Even when he grit his teeth and crushed the pillow against his ears, the scar burned like he'd been branded and his teeth rattled in his head as every sound, every heartbeat, every snapping twig roared like thunder in the darkness of night and the overwhelming urge to hunt made his head spin. Soon, he stopped trying.

Others he'd met had tried to comfort him. Help him. Tell him there were ways to cope, ways to learn self control, ways to live a normal life. He didn't listen. He never wanted the curse and he didn't want to hear their _lies_. There was no reward waiting for him, no boon given with it. The wolf was no _gift. _The words 'self control' especially made him resent other accursed. How can you have self control over something that wasn't even _you? _Better to swallow it. Bridle it. Pretend for a day that it wasn't there. That he was still a man.

"I am still a man," he whispered to himself as his bare, human feet shuffled over dry leaves. "I'm just cursed. I'm just sick. I'm still me."

He looked behind himself, down at his tracks in the snow, as though assuring himself it were so. The northwestern forests over Lake Ilinalta sat in the shadow of a mountain, preventing the snow from melting just yet. Here, had had followed a scent in hopes of... something. Anything, really. He worried what would become of him if he did not find something soon.

The woman- Svensa, her name had been, made it clear that morning. She could and would hunt him to the ends of Tamriel if he did not pay his debt to her, whatever the price of the child had been. She did not smell of a shifter, but a similar scent lingered on top of her natural one. Smoke, blood, metal, rain, magic, daedra. And every beast that walked in between. Like the altar in the forest, like the offerings on its surface, like the ring with ruby eyes, like the nightmares filled with claws, fangs, and a daedric lord's anger.

_He_ would never eat a child. It had been the ring and it had been the wolf, who was not _him. _But it was obvious that she held no sympathy towards his plight, having him redeem himself to her through his actions whether or not he could control the beast within himself. Otherwise, he was certain she would skin him alive.

"It was the wolf," he muttered. "It wasn't me. It wasn't me. It was my fault, but it wasn't-"

He cut himself off as a strong gust of wind whipped through the pines, sending a curtain of snow tumbling down from their branches. On it, he smelled campfire smoke, venison, gristle, fat. Honey, from mead. Sweat, from man. Two men, at least. A kinsman and a southerner. A metallic tinge layered on the breeze, burning the inside of his nose and scorching his throat. In an instant, he recognized what it was. _Silver._

Suddenly, he wasn't there. Suddenly, he was somewhere else, somewhere dark and lightless. The smell of blood, smoke, and silver breathing down his back. Fading and reappearing with each passing moment. He was in the woods, back in the night that he ran.

Hounds bayed from far behind him and boots scuffed on stone. Low hanging branches snagging on his bare skin, mud squelching between his toes. The ring in his hand burned, the wolf head biting into his palm as the arrow let loose and dug into his shoulder. The bad one. The one with the bite. Then his skin rippled and pulled, then his jaw cracked and split, then his nails hardened and grew. He felt his skin stretch and his bones bend as the wolf took hold of him again.

The footprints he left behind were deep and clawed. The heel was gone, the man was dead. Sinding ran from the silver, from the dogs, from the fire, from his own sins. From the child he, no- it had killed. Color receded from his vision. The sky, blue or black faded to gray and the smell of blood, thick and potent, pulled him from his path like an old chain who's master he knew well.

His thoughts muddled into disarray as a primal fear sunk in, battling with the last fragment of rationality he had. He needed to run. He needed to hunt. He had to get away. The hunters were at his back. The child was playing alone. Falkreath was quiet. Secluded. He could hide there. In the wild. In the town. He didn't mean it. He never wanted this.

But he needed to- he had to- the ring! What about it? She had it. He had to pay her back. For the child. The little girl. Otherwise he'd die. He didn't want to die. He really didn't want to die. Neither did the wolf. But the wolf was hungry. So hungry. Starving. His empty stomach gnawed against his skin. And there was blood on the wind now. So much blood, by the smell. Too much blood, almost. A severed artery of something hurt.

Drool ran from his teeth in buckets. His lips curled into something hideously predatory. Something uncontrolled. Unbridled. Unhinged.

In broad daylight, the black beast threw its head back in a howl, claws tossing up the soft earth as it barreled into the trees towards the rank odor of something bleeding dry. He was still a man, he kept telling himself. He was sorry. He just needed to hunt. To tear something open. It didn't matter what.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter length impeded by real life and lack of motivation. Sorry for filler. If you can spare a comment or feedback, it would make me very, very happy. I kinda need it right about now.


	16. Chapter Fifteen: Twisting

"This is... interesting to say the least. You're certain there was no necromancy involved? No incantations or-"

"None. _I _killed it."

Farengar hummed, staring down at the beast with a contemplative expression from where he reclined in his chair. Dragonsreach was far from the place she was hoping to be, but the court wizard had been far too busy to walk down to the temple, instead insisting that she come to him. Danica had practically dragged her up the stairs to the great keep, her behavior near frantic as she implored the guards to let them through.

In the crate between them, the rabbit sat, nearly motionless. It did not blink, its eyes glazed over with white. It did not breathe, its normally twitching nose still. But within the creature's abdomen, something shifted. Something alive in this dead creature.

"Could you...?"

Wordlessly, she snatched the animal by the head, picking it up and twisting its neck until it popped. Beside her, Danica suppressed a shudder.

"Much thanks."

Farengar took it by the scruff, letting it dangle from his hand as he held a magelight near its eyes, down its throat.

"Infection, bloated stomach, voided intestines..." he listed. "This has been dead for a day?"

"Two."

"Its stomach..."

"Split. In order to see-"

"The parasites. I gathered. This has been going on for how long? How many animals?"

"I don't know. I need to know."

The wizard sighed, grabbing a nearby jar and scalpel on his desk and scrawling something down on a piece of parchment that she could not read. She was relieved to find he did not ask _why _she in particular was dealing with this, but was more concerned as to how he was going to have her go about it.

She watched as he tweezed out around five long, black worms nearing the length of his desk and shoved them in the jar of preservative oil. They writhed within, darkening the liquid. For a split second, she thought she heard one hiss.

"Here's the thing-"

Shoving open the door and stomping, Svensa stepped into the quiet inn and shook the snow from her cloak. She latched the door behind her, the wind outside cutting off with it, before whistling through the cracks. Huffing, she settled onto the nearest bench and began to peel off her heavy furs.

"Well, if it isn't Salt-Daggers!" called Hadring, recognizing her, strangely enough.

She blinked at the old honor name, almost forgetting it entirely. But like a lot of things, it never truly went away to begin with. She just never used it.

"What's it taken for you to finally set foot at my inn?"

Come around maybe seven-eight years ago, the answer would have been "Nothing," as she would have grabbed a drink and headed back out into the storm, sleeping out under the stars.

Two years after that, she probably would have asked if he had a bassinet, maybe a quieter room for a light sleeper.

But right now, she was tired and forced to pack light, with little room for extra layers. While the melt had reached the southernmost borders, here in the Pale the snow fell in an endless, sheeting blizzard. Her answer was a lot less witted and stubborn than she would have liked, simply coming out as-

"It's cold."

The innkeeper's laugh came out as a bark. He put down the damp rag used for cleaning the counters, before walking over and throwing a few more logs into the fire pit.

"As good a reason as any," he said. "Let me look at you, girl. You've been gone for the better part of a decade."

Sapped of energy from the trek, Svensa saw no reason to resist. She complied, peeling back her hood as the older man stood across from her.

"Shor's bones. And here I was thinking you were still a girl," he said. "Shows how long I've been cooped up in here."

She smiled, mirthless and stared down at the floor. This man had been a regular stop for her family when they came north to the ice floats to hunt for horkers and narwhal. It was only an occasional trip, very seasonal. They were inexperienced at it, having mostly been inland. But they came back, time and time again to get the precious fat and blubber the beasts provided.

After she had left the clan, she only ever came through to hunt northern game or find passage to Morrowind, having always hated the bone chilling winds the Sea of Ghosts would blow ashore. Even as a child of the snow, there was only so much a Nord could tolerate and Svensa had found her breaking point when faced with the downwinds from Atmora.

"I haven't seen much of your folks," he said, rubbing the back of his neck.

"Good," she replied, not meeting his eyes.

The silence hung between the two, awkward and unwanted. On the far off bench, a drunken man groaned into his empty cup, the sound echoing through the near empty building. She really didn't need to open old wounds right now and she was hoping that Hadring would catch on to that. Averting his gaze, he coughed into a fist and sniffed.

"Change of subject," he said. "Can I get you anything?"

Thank the gods.

"Got an empty room?"

Hadring simply turned, gesturing with both arms at his all but completely vacant establishment. She bit her lip to suppress a chuckle, watching him step forth like a priest in a chapel.

"Enough rooms to house a king and his courtesans," he said. "Pick your favorite."

The room was small, but well kept and clean. Svensa dumped her bag onto the nearby chair and flopped down on the bed, feeling the frame creak with disuse. She rolled over, bringing and arm across her face as she let out a long sigh.

"My colleagues in the College of Winterhold could help you better, having many more resources at their disposal," said Farengar, handing her a sealed letter. "Give this to the gatekeeper, as a vouching. There's no guarantee they'll let you in on that alone, so I urge you to be ready for some kind of magical test or payment."

"How will they be of help?"

"If nothing else, they can point you in the right direction."

The forest was dying, manbeasts were disappearing, a parasite was infecting the prey, and here she was supposed to hike up into the frozen taigas with nothing but the clothes on her back based on an _assumption_? She didn't have time for this.

Something was causing this. Something unnatural and foreign in the balance of things. Something that needed to be purged.

Nothing of pure nature could ever be hunted. No disease, or pestilence. This was bigger than that. Whatever was happening, was happening intentionally, fast enough and underhanded enough that nobody would notice until the meat on their platters was already rotted with flies. She knew this, but only after a grotesque display of a Daedric Prince's power. Only after _He _stepped in, ordering her to intervene. 

Something needed to die. She needed to find out what that was. The Pale did not hold the answer.

"Too far," she argued, leaning across the table.

She wanted to demand something else. Something faster, within reach. There wasn't anything up there that couldn't be found elsewhere. There had to be another way.

"Svensa."

She turned, surprised to see that Danica was still there. The priestess's hood was pulled back, her expression near dire. She beckoned her over to a corner in order to speak more privately. With a slight hesitance, she followed.

"I have seen you through many a trial, most of which included your daughter," she said, holding up her hand before she could retort. "This has much to do with her, doesn't it? Or am I wrong?"

Svensa pursed her lips and looked at the wall, hating the way the priestess spoke as though she could possibly understand. This... this was a mess. How could she even begin to explain to her what was truly going on here? She didn't even _want _to be here. Just give her a direction_ and let. Her. Hunt._

"My daughter sits on the sidelines, safe," she said, biting back every word, every Daedric term used to describe her deepest, darkest dreams. Bit back the name, Lavinia, the whisper of Hircine. "I'm doing this to protect our way of life in the woods. I can't-"

She cut herself off, running a hand through a few stray wisps of hair, leaning against the wall as though it might ground her. She hated talking, hated the words coming out of her mouth, unless it was to her Roo. So much she had to swallow, so much she had to hide.

"I don't need to justify my actions. Not to you."

_ I can't run away,_ she wanted to say, feeling every mistake she ever made weighing her down, every instance she walked away flashing before her eyes.

_ I made a commitment, _she wanted to blurt out, the ring squeezing the girth of her finger and promising things she shouldn't want.

_ I want to kill anything that would hurt her, _she wanted to admit, something deep within her growing, yawning open with the jaws of a beast.

But instead she let them steep and broil, let the words she picked be enough to suffice for some kind of an answer, however vague it may be. Danica nodded, but seemed unconvinced by her statement. Whether she believed her or not was not of much consequence, as Svensa wasn't looking for her approval, the woman hardly knew her.

"If that's the way it is, fine then," she said, her frown deep and saturated in disapproval. "Just know that I do care what becomes of you. Even if you don't."

Svensa's eyes narrowed and she shook her head as she turned away, taking the letter from Farengar's hand and heading back out into the light of the morning sun, feeling all but defeated.

Without a horse, it would take the better part of the day to reach the Nightgate Inn, where her family had sometimes lodged. She could only hope that the trip was worth it as she was driven further and further away from her daughter.

Now she lay sprawled across a straw mattress, feeling the walls tremble against each gust of wind and praying that they'd hold, that whatever she was trying to hold back wouldn't split open and spill out for all to see.

_Embrace what you are._

Hide what you fear.

She stretched, rolling her ankles and hearing them click. Besides the creak of heavy snow on the roof's beams and the occasional pop from the crackling hearth, the building was quiet and warm. She reached across the closet sized space, not bothering to sit up as she pulled a cloak from her bag. It was not quite the evening yet, but she was already exhausted.

If the college didn't hve what she was after, then there was a chance she had already let the prey get the better of her. She needed to at least know what she was dealing with, that way it wouldn't turn on her, sink its teeth in and tear out her throat.

She didn't want to be here. She didn't want to waste time. But if there was nowhere else she could go besides the lost city resting on the cliffs of the Pale, then so be it. So long as Ruvja was safe, she'd go. She'd go anywhere for her.

She pulled the cloth over her shoulders and closed her eyes, spent.

Outside the snow did not stop, blotting out the sun and encasing the mountains in shadow. The wind whipped, hard and unrelenting, within it the howls of primordial creatures, lost souls, and starving beasts echoed off the glaciers, sending her shivering deep within her bones.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Been busy with a lotta stuff lately, most of which include original projects.   
I did however make a couple pieces of art for Svensa, which I intend to leave in this book as soon as I figure out how HTML and image URLs work. Wah.  
Thank you for 100 hits btw, ily.


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